Umbrella Blood
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: [AU] The death of a loved one closes some doors and opens others. But the doors themselves aren't so easy to find, or pass through once they're found...
1. 01-05

**A/N:** The title came from the idea of it raining blood in a metaphorical sense, except not being quite so bad as the umbrella acts as a shelter against the rain/blood. Think of it as acid rain; you're fine as long as you've got shelter but shelter means you're restricted to a certain area. And you might not have the convenience of being under shelter when it suddenly starts to rain.

Prompts are from livejournal (again). This as isaviel's prompt table 30-B. Five prompts per chapter (again) so 6 chapters in total.

Also posted on lj, but individual prompts. So if you'd rather read them one at a time, then journal link is on my profile. Just click on the Umbrella Blood tag if it's not staring at you. I've finished writing, but it's not fully posted on either place sadly. I'm being a bit slow with that. :D

* * *

**_Umbrella Blood_**

* * *

**01\. Lively**

Corpses weren't meant to look alive, but somehow he had never imagined one looking so _dead_. In fact, he'd never imagined seeing one up close, and it was frightening.

Kouichi had imagined death as something angelic, the way his mother had described it. The end of a long journey of trials and troubles and the beginning to a world free from pain and suffering and enough so that no human being could ever be of need or want again. That description had given him an image of ethereal beauty: a glowing face and a body with all tension evaporated with the last of life. Maybe with the smell of musk or fresh flowers.

But that…_that_…was different. That was cold and stiff and slightly discoloured and –

– his _mother!_

He screamed and jerked forward as someone touched him – placed a hand on his shoulder.

The hand immediately retracted, but it changed matters little…if at all. But the possibility of subtlety could not be ignored; many things happened where people missed them, and beyond that were many more things humans were incapable of grasping, of understanding.

Emotions, feelings…they were such things. Perhaps the soul experiencing them were best equipped to understanding them, but even they fell short on the ladder of full enlightenment.

He didn't understand the chaos that was his mind and heart. He heard murmurs around him, streaked against a black backdrop and slowly colouring it an imperfectly vicious white. Words stood out: his name, his mother's, that word…

But nothing was as cold, as stabbing, as the body he was half slumped over and still clutching all while the mix of smell and touch was making his head reel.

Was he standing up before that? He wasn't sure; in any case, he was sure his legs could not support his body at that moment. His mind was having trouble grasping the situation; a small part of him still hung on to the possibility that his interpretation was incorrect. Perhaps because it seemed unreal, not fitting into the definition he had grown up knowing…

But his heart was in his mouth. He was either going to throw up or faint and he knew, he _knew_, his mother would never allow such a scene to be played out in jest. A single mother she may be, but the people in their community had long since learnt not to anger her when her only son was involved in the matter.

And that meant –

He was suddenly pulled away from the body and onto his feet. His head spun. The white cloth he had involuntarily grabbed for slithered and fell, exposing a little more of her uncovered frame.

'Come away,' someone said softly in his ear. 'This is no place for y – hey!'

The last exclamation was too loud, piercing like a shrill alarm through his skull. Bile was rushing up his throat; some unplaceable stench was blocking his nose but he somehow found himself incapable of acting on instinct and doubling over to regurgitate whatever contents his stomach possessed. Instead, the sensation of drowning in dark waters consumed him, the white cloth floating away from him as the lifeline that both attracted and repulsed him was swallowed up by the same darkness that consumed him.

* * *

**02\. Remorseful**

He woke to the scent of herbs and burning wood. The curtains were drawn over the windows, dampening the young autumn sun that attempted to steal through the cracks. Soft voices melted into the air around: soft and gentle and yet still containing a hint of something grated and raw.

He turned his face, burrowing into the soft pillow beneath his head. He didn't want to listen to them. After all, what could they say to him? Sympathies that helped no-one, despite the best of intentions. Remorse that was not truly heartfelt – for losing a family member was very different from losing a friend or co-worker, and he knew it well. After all, his mother wasn't the first in his family to die.

He closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the world. But he couldn't stop his ears; even muffled by layers of cloth they took in the shallow murmurs from the hallway, like a netting in which he floundered about with seawater, unable to escape…or sleep.

* * *

**03\. Dismiss**

He awoke once more, but to the sound of fragmented voices. Part of him wanted to stay in the humidity of his blankets, but his mind had, in its slumber, lost the ability to return to that incomprehensible state.

And he wished he could, because the truth was now unavoidable. His mother was gone – dead – and he was alone.

He had known, to an extent, that it would happen in the near future. They both had; the terminal cancer had reached its final stages and mother and child could afford to do nothing else but wait for the end. But they both avoided it; in a way, they were both too young. Tomoko had always talked about her son growing up and finding a nice young girl to marry and live happily with. She had talked about babysitting the grandkids, like her mother had did with Kouichi while she worked. She talked about sitting in a rocking chair at a ripe old age, knitting scarves and sweaters and nice warm mittens for the family.

But then the news came, and it came like a wave, crashing through everything. To Kouichi – who was old enough to know the world was not black and white but still too young to fully understand the grey – it wasn't nearly enough time to come to grips with the idea. It still seemed as though Tomoko would wake up tomorrow, albeit weakly, and they would eat soup together and work through puzzles or trade stories – for it seemed there was a wealth they had never gotten the opportunity to exchange.

Or was, rather, because his heart was a block of lead that, like the cancer that had taken his mother, could not be removed.

And they had never, never, talked about what would happen next.

So there was really no reason to move after all, because he had no destination.

* * *

**04\. Heavy**

Someone checked up on him and he closed his eyes, though they seemed to realise he was awake. Still, they asked he was hungry, took his silence as a "no" and told him everything would be okay.

He felt he should appreciate the sentiment, but part of him was still rather numb.

The blankets really felt heavy, and after she was gone he pushed them away, then forced himself to his feet to open the window. The room was simply that suffocating that it forced him to his feet.

He wished it hadn't though, because the first blast of cool air caused him to tremble. Still, he stayed in his new place, leaning against the glass and becoming slowly frozen by the cold caressing wind. At least he could breathe there after all.

He could hear the whispers from the window. His mother's friends – or co-workers; in either case, he didn't know them very well – talking outside by their cars. Maybe they felt uncomfortable staying indoors for too long. Maybe they too were being suffocating by the heavy air that followed death.

He heard his name a few times…and once, his father's. But that was quickly devoured by the whistle of the wind and taken to new paths. Homes, people he didn't know, orphanages…

The image of his father, blurry and unrecognisable, burned behind his eyes. He was young when his parents divorced: too young to remember the face. But he remembered being piggy-backed along, high enough sometimes to reach the cherry blossom leaves. He remembered a figure of strength.

* * *

**05\. Forward**

That gave him an idea. A childish idea, through and through, but at least it was a course of action.

Naturally, there had been times where he hated his father, for leaving him and his mother. But afterwards he would think: his mother didn't hate him, nor did his grandmother. And the few memories he had showed his father as a good person, for if he remembered something as trivial as being lifted to reach the cherry blossoms he would also recall if his father had ever acted in a less-than-appealing manner. And those memories were easier to remember, or so he had learnt and so he had read. But he didn't.

And surely his father could fix things if he went to him. Surely he couldn't turn away from a son that had lost his mother, no matter where had been over the past years. Surely he still cared.

He remembered his mother telling him once that she still sometimes kept in contact with his father. They were few and far between, she explained, because his work had him moving so often and post was so unreliable. Occasionally, she laughed, he would post the forwarding address and she would receive it only after he had moved again. But they talked about him, she said, and every year without fail he would send a little money and a card for his birthday.

It seemed like the only connection to his father, so without fail Kouichi too would ask his mother send a little something for father's day.

But surely the most recent address was still around somewhere. And if he could find it, and follow…

It seemed so very easy, and the thought of comfort and security at the end was enough to push him away from his support by the windowsill.


	2. 06-10

_**Umbrella Blood**_

* * *

**06\. Prowl**

He didn't want to step into his mother's bedroom. He didn't. Not then anyway. It was too early. Too fresh. He knew – just knew – he would be looking for her, like when he had a nightmare as a child and crawled into her bed, and she would embrace him and stroke the fear away –

But he needed to find that address, and that was what made him open the door.

Perfume from scented candles seemed ten times stronger in the dim and unaired room, the scent rushing in to overwhelm him as soon as he loosened the barriers to the outside world. It was unbearable for a moment, and tears pricked at his vision, but the resolve he had set for himself pushed him forward once more. Small, quiet steps padding on the ragged carpet soundlessly until knees hit the floor with a soft thump.

And then his hands were around the box, removing the lid and digging blindly, fruitlessly, into its dreary depths.

* * *

**07\. Cut**

He hissed in surprise at the sharp pain, and removed his hands to stare at the little line of red that lined the side of one finger.

Such a small wound…but its pain had been so _sharp_. And the colour so bright.

He blinked owlishly at the blossoming line before returning to his digging, this time with a more focused mind and eye. The thin line of red on his finger glared from the edge of his peripheral vision, blocked him off from other distractions. All that could steal his mind were the numerous letters and other titbits in his hands: a few photos of his father, the last with a woman he didn't recognise, and of him. Except he somehow looked different.

But Kouichi wasn't looking for photos, and he simply grabbed one of the recent ones on a whim and put the rest aside. There were some cards as well, mostly addressed to him, but a couple for his mother too, and Koichi did spend a little more rime staring at his mother's name printed so neatly, before putting that aside as well.

Letters were interposed between, and Koichi organised them into date order before staring at the address on the most recent one.

He took the whole letter, torn envelope and all, with him.

* * *

**08\. Compromise **

He didn't have a lot he could call his own; most things simply belonged to the house, and it was impossible to decide their owned now. Some things, mostly clothes and sparse jewellery but a few other sentimental items as well, were his mothers. A few second hand books brought from his allowance, the presents from his late grandmother that hadn't been broken, grown out of or eaten, and clothes.

In the end, he took just a jacket, what remained from his allowance, and the framed photo of all three of them along with what he'd already set aside. He was just going to see someone after all, and put everything right.

Or he was in a walkabout dream and would wake up when he got to his destination. That didn't seem like too bad an idea when it stuck. Even if he wasn't naïve enough to think his mother could open her eyes and set the world right again.

Maybe he was idolising a father he'd never met instead, but at that moment there was no alternative in his mind. The desire for a parent, _his _parent, was too strong.

* * *

**09\. Impulse**

It was hours later, on the bullet train, when cold sunk into his bones.

He'd essentially run away from home – from a home that no longer belonged to him, without his mother there. Who knew how others would see that? Would they think, with nobody to argue otherwise, that his mother was a bad guardian? Would they send him away somewhere? To an orphanage as they'd been saying? Or add him as another statistic lost in the streets?

He clutched his misshapen bag, feeling the soft worn jacket wrapped around the hard picture frame. Even with the dual buffer, the sharp edges dug into his palms. He left the picture hidden, simply holding it tight and trembling without a mother to embrace him.

A few other passengers watched him, but no-one reached out. Some saw the sadness in his eyes and frame and silently spelt pity. Others saw the dishevelled clothes and assumed him a runaway starting over, fare paid or no. Few did the honest thing, spending the last of their money before dwelling in whatever place they had reached; others took the free and less admirable road to rebirth.

Not that it mattered, because the homeless in any sense were frowned upon, and it didn't really matter that Koichi had a father he was looking for, or no real place to run away from, because he was alone. He drew his knees to his chest and clutched his frayed backpack even closer and trembled a little more under the watchful gaze of the world.

* * *

**10\. Hush**

It was night when the bullet train arrived, but while his hometown would have been a quiet shore by this time, Tokyo station was still alive with lights and sound. It hurt his already tender head, and he stumbled a good many times before finding the platform he needed to be on to catch the local train. Unfortunately, it was one of the smaller lines, finishing early and starting late. But he wasn't the only person waiting; there were a few sleepy eyes that has gotten off the night express, and a few whose dirty and ruffled clothes marked them without homes.

The night guard frowned at the lot of them, but said nothing. Music blared from a loudspeaker, and one of the homeless men was trying to beg a few yen off the other customers. He left Koichi alone though, and he was able to shut his stinging eyes and try to fall asleep on a bench. He even tried to hope it _would_ all be a bad dream when he awoke, wished upon a shooting star he couldn't see, and finally drifted off with jacket wound around his hands, both of which clutched the framed photo of his grandmother, mother and he.


	3. 11-15

**A/N: **Halfway there!

* * *

**_Umbrella Blood_**

* * *

**11\. Morals**

He woke up stiff and cold and with his nose burning, as though it hungered for the incense and smelling herbs he'd left behind. His eyes stung with tears that had gone unshed overnight, and a hungriness in his heart gnawed away at the inner body.

Train whistles were exploding close; the other suburban trains had begun to run, and the one he waited for would be soon. Still, he didn't move; he'd come this far, but after the adrenaline had passes, the futility of such a move had struck him down. All he had done was set himself up for more pain; his father had another life, testament of their sparse contact with him. But what else was there to do? He could have just stayed put, but ultimately there was nothing waiting for him. An orphanage, cold and without familiarity and care, didn't sound much better. There was no belonging there – unless someone adopted him, but he was too old to be adopted. He didn't want a stranger anyway.

He felt young and scared, as though a thunderstorm was going on outside and there was no warm embrace to huddle in. Except there was no thunderstorm, just the roar of train engines passing by on nearby platforms, and the smell of steaming coffee from a neighbouring man that chased away the lingering incense smell.

He sat up and blinked at the screen. There was still a half hour before his train came, and he still felt stuffed to the brim with things he didn't need in his head, including incense smoke.

The man looked at him. 'You look sick,' he remarked. 'And too young to be traveling alone.'

It was the concerned look aimed at him that clued Kouichi in. 'I'm okay,' he said quietly, wincing at how his voice croaked.

'Trying to start over?' There was no condescension in his tone, only sympathy.

'…no.' But he said it too quietly, and the man had left. Possibly to freshen up. Kouichi considered doing so as well, but when he tried to stand he found his head swimming, and he flopped back down instead of fight it.

There was a mutter from a woman that was probably aimed at him, and then the man returned with a second cup of coffee he thrust into the boy's lap.

Kouichi automatically grabbed the cup before it toppled. 'I can't,' he protested, cheeks flaming. What he'd had left of his allowance had barely covered the train fare – and somehow his brain hadn't registered the circumstances he'd left himself to.

'Nonsense,' the man said gruffly. 'Everyone needs a warm drink to wake themselves out, and what sort of adult would I be to let a child buy one themselves.' He paused, regarded the coffee cup, then added: 'unfortunately coffee's the only thing they sell warm.'

The cup warmed up his stiff hands.

* * *

**12\. Engage**

The man tried to engage him in conversation, but Kouichi really didn't know what to say. 'Looking for my father and my home,' just died upon his lips, and nothing else was remotely close to the truth.

Eventually, the man picked up on the smell of incense that clung heavily to him. The smell that the coffee and train exhaust had managed to chase away, but had come back dull blast when the train doors had shut them into the carriage.

'Did someone close to you die?' he asked quietly.

Kouichi shivered at the image and clutched his bag closer. He nodded.

The man only made small talk after that until his stop came. Maybe he thought what the other needed was a sense of normalcy in the world. And maybe Kouichi was just being selfish and difficult, because it wasn't until much later he appreciated the sentiment.

* * *

**13\. Voice**

He listened carefully for his stop, fighting the urge to close his eyes and fall asleep, keeping his gaze glued to the screen instead. Even so, he almost missed his stop and tripped on the platform in his haste. Nobody notice – or, if they did notice, they did not turn around to him. He was grateful; he didn't want any sympathetic looks for his almost-sickly appearance, or any dirty ones for his scruffy attire – for he had slept in those clothes three times now, and the shirt at least wasn't made for sleeping in.

Once he got outside, he pulled his jacket on and took the envelope with address in hand. The cold autumn air still stung through the light green, but after a few minutes of walking it had warmed up a bit. Instead of being comfortable though, it made him feel sticky and sweaty, and it was only because he hated the cold more than anything that he didn't tear his jacket off again.

He didn't know the way, but he'd looked at the map at the train station and worked out. Maybe it was a long way, or maybe he was just walking slow, but it took him longer than he'd thought to come.

The sun was low and burning when he found the address.

* * *

**14\. Awkward**

It was a large house. Well kept, but with a lonely feel to it. It was only half of what he'd imagined, and it took him a moment to tear himself away from the too neat lawn and noticeably absent garden, and notice the "sold" sign near the door.

Some people passed. A few gave him odd looks; others asked if he was lost.

He was lost. He was looking for his father – for a home. He might have even said as much, though nothing came of it.

When standing became unbearable, he let his blind feet carry him.

* * *

**15\. Lower**

The envelope was useless now, though had clutched it until it wrinkled before putting it away. He stared at the photo instead: not the one of his mother and grandmother, but the one he'd blindly grabbed.

It was the one with the woman he didn't recognise in it. She looked happy, though the image Koichi knew to be his father looked old and worn under his own happy mask. Kouichi stared at them both, noting how close they stood, the way his father's eyes didn't quite meet the camera, how their fingers had rings- wedding rings.

His mother had mentioned it and he'd forgotten. His father had a new family: a new wife, and perhaps new children too.

The thought hit him suddenly. Why had he thought he could find comfort here. His father had a new home – and there probably wouldn't be any space in it for him.

He still clung to the photo, displayed it when asked, but his footsteps had no drive and he just wondered. Somehow, it didn't seem to matter that he'd had only one cup of coffee since yesterday noon, and he had only a few sen left. It didn't seem to matter the world wasn't clear, or he wasn't walking straight in it. It didn't even occur to him that his mother's friends would be worried – and when he looked back, he couldn't believe none of that had occurred to him.


	4. 16-20

**_Umbrella Blood_**

* * *

**16\. Plead**

He only stopped walking when his legs gave up pleading with him and collapsed, and then he just sat slumped against the bridge he'd been passing, his back to the water.

Once, he would have loved to sit and watch such a scene; he could have done so for hours, thinking about his happiness and his troubles, but that was before the water found darker things to reflect in him.

He didn't need to see the mess he was; he didn't want to see either. In fact, he'd have either. In fact, he'd have rather been away from the water, because once he realised it was there, it was like an ominous presence that lurked like a shadow behind.

It spooked him, and he huddled close to himself, already cold and shivering and at a complete loss. His knees told him nothing, and the crumpled photo he held had brought him no fruit. He wasn't even looking at it ns, or thinking of it. He was thinking of his mother instead, hoping she'd come and find her lost little boy. Perhaps he'd even forgotten she was dead; his mouth was dry and his head dizzy, and tiredness pulled at every nerve in his body.

* * *

**17\. Caring**

There were a few strangers that cared enough to stop, but even they passed the boy once they realised he was asleep. It was a relatively quiet bridge as well, one only those crossing the park would pass. Not an unusual place for nap, thought those people who could keep their opinions to themselves. As for those who couldn't, they felt the park wasn't the best place for a stigma of society, but certainly better than being curled up in the road leading to the station, or roaming the city.

But there was no one who thought to take him home and wrap him cosily up. No one who thought he was just lost and exhausted and needed his family, or even just a little warmth, inside. But that's all he really was, sleeping now and trying to grasp his mother in his dreams.

* * *

**18\. Believe**

His heart ache worse when he awoke. The fragile tendrils of dreams still hummed on his pale flushed skin, and his fingers still tried to grab them. The world was both hot and cold and muffled in a bubble, and there was still no answer or path waiting for him.

He uncurled, just a bit, watching the world flitter past like a flicker animation in its full, dizzying speed. He kept on watching them; he didn't have it in him then to get up and move, but the childish part of him still hoped someone would come, like a dream but one he could actually grasp, touch with both hands.

He was hot and dizzy and cold and tired, and he hadn't yet realised he hadn't eaten or drunk anything for over twenty-four hours. Perhaps he hadn't realised how much time had passed.

* * *

**19\. Found**

It was a hallucination, but he had stood up for it nonetheless. And then he barely managed to catch himself from falling over like a house of cards.

His head knew the truth, the hopelessness, but his heart had seemed to have lost the capacity for reason. It seemed perfectly willing to chase after shadows, even if it couldn't take the heartbreak that ensured, simply for a brief fleeting taste of Eden's forbidden fruit.

After that, he stared, slumped over, at the water that gurgled in its river jail below, dried out and barely flowing after the gruelling summer it had endured. But even if it had been flowing at full capacity, it wouldn't have been very deep. If the currents weren't too strong, someone his age and height could easily stand upright and have their head out of the water.

* * *

**20\. Shield **

He hadn't noticed the scuffle taking place until it crept nearer to him, and it seemed as though they hadn't noticed him either. Instead, the two older boys were dragging a third, younger, one closer to the bridge.

One laughed. 'Think there's enough water for a bath?'

The other grinned as well. 'A mud bath? Definitely.'

'But Yutaka will be mad.' The younger boy squirmed.

'Your brother's not here to see you,' the tallest of them pointed out. 'And if you dunk in the fountain afterwards and run around the park five times, he'll never even have to know.'

Evidently, the younger boy didn't like the idea as much as the other two, because he squirmed some more, looking panicked.

'Leave him alone,' Kouichi said reflexively, one hand gripping the railings while his head and heart occupied themselves with entirely different matters.

'Or what?' One of the boys let go of the younger one and came over: the taller one, hoping perhaps for a height advantage. Autopilot didn't have an answer for that, but it did have an answer for the punch that sent him crashing into the rails, and both other boys cried out on alarm.

'Hey, Katsuharu – ' the other half of the duo began hesitantly, before being interrupted.

'Stop fighting!'

'Why?' Katsuharu snapped, getting to his feet and cracking his knuckles threateningly. 'This guy –'

'He looks sick!' The young boy's voice sounded more convicted than when he'd argued against his own manhandling. 'You can't fight someone who's sick.'

Which seemed to be the truth, as Katsuharu left the other boy crawling to his feet and returned to his initial victim. 'So should I turn you into a punching bag instead, Tommy?'

'I'd rather you didn't,' Tommy said in a rapidly shrinking voice.


	5. 21-25

**_Umbrella Blood_**

* * *

**21\. Open**

Tommy was glad to hear Yutaka's voice, because he didn't understand or like where the situation was going. Katsuharu and Teppei weren't pleased, however they didn't have much against a big brother.

He had a sneaking suspicion the other had stood there longer, and he asked once the other two boys had mumbled something and left. Yutaka confirmed it, adding that he had wanted to see how Tommy would react in that situation. Flee? Intervene? Run for help?

'I'm proud,' he said, clasping his little brother's shoulder briefly. 'Though I do wish you'd learn some self-preservation before it kicks you in the butt.'

'You're proud?' Tommy repeated blankly. 'Why?'

'It's a step up from running away when you saw someone beating down a little kid,' Yutaka pointed out, before leaving the matter for more important ones. Like that other boy.

* * *

**22\. Tactile**

Koichi had lost track of things. There'd been a little kid being picked on by older ones. There'd been an adult. There'd been his mother and grandmother… and maybe his father too? He wasn't sure anymore. But he was having a hard time working out who those fuzzy shapes were. None of them looked tangible.

And the voices speaking to him weren't much better. Indistinguishable and unintelligible and unrecognisable. Not that he thought he really answered; if it wasn't hi parents, he doubted they could newer his question. And it couldn't be his parents – and he wasn't sure when that tired acceptance had devoured him, but it had – because his parents were gone.

* * *

**23\. Journey**

The boy had stopped climbing to his feet the lethargic way he had, and had collapsed like an empty sack after staring a few seconds into space. Tommy looked worriedly at Yutaka, who briefly debated with himself. Unless it was a carefully thought out plan, the guy had to have a kind heart to stand up for someone else, and it was true that so many of the homeless weren't on the streets for any fault of their own.

But it was still dangerous to bring someone you didn't know to your house.

But if the boy wasn't carrying identification, which he probably wasn't, then they couldn't take him to a clinic.

And he wasn't. Though he was caring a letter, with an address and phone number.

'Maybe he got lost,' Tommy suggested.

Yutaka thought it was unlikely, but he supposed it could have been…if his parents were irresponsible enough or something unfathomable had happened. 'Well,' he sighed finally. 'We can't just leave him so I suppose we'll have to take him home for now. We can call that number later.'

And it took a while, with Yutaka walking with the extra weight, but they managed.

* * *

**24\. Scowl**

Tommy was looking at their guest's things while Yutaka made a few phone calls. There hadn't been much: a letter that was dated a couple of months ago talking about menial things like works and somebody's marks – it almost sounded like the sort of phone calls they'd have with their father when he was away at work, just a lot more distant, because their dad would only be gone for a few weeks, tops.

There was a photo as well, of a pretty lady who had the same sort of hair as the stranger boy did. Tommy bit his lip as he stared at it; it looked familiar for some reason, even if the odds of him having ever seen the woman in the photo were slim to none.

It hit him when Yutaka came back into the room, wearing a disgruntled smile. The same sort of smile Koji was so fond of wearing when he wasn't in the company of his friends…and, up till a little while ago, even when he was. And Koji had a photo of that same woman on his desk; he was sure of it.

* * *

**25\. Hero**

Yutaka had thought his little brother's idea sounded pretty crazy, but it had turned out to be right. The odds of the photo being of the same woman was…crazy as well, but Yutaka didn't see the harm in checking, and when he'd called Koji's number, his father had picked up instead.

Not the plan, but Yutaka described the situation and the father seemed shocked – and relieved. 'Thank goodness,' was what he said. 'We didn't know where he'd gone off to.'

Yutaka had blinked at that. 'You know him?' he asked. Tommy hadn't mentioned knowing him…though it might've not been related to him. Yutaka confessed he didn't know Tommy's friends as well as he'd like to. He didn't hero worship them though, which had been an initial surprise: that was what Tommy's friends tended to be in the past. But that was before Tommy started growing up. Before he found what Yutaka hoped were real friends.

Regardless, Koji's father did know the kid on their couch, but it sounded like a long and complicated story that would have to wait until everyone was present and accounted for before it was told.


	6. 26-30

**A/N: **Last lot. And all writer's choice. Nice way to allow for a wrap-up. Though I'm skipping the Koji finds out scene this time round; no space for it. :D And it's been done so many times, it's not really necessary for this fic.

* * *

**_Umbrella Blood_**

* * *

**26\. Writer's Choice**

It was so warm and comfortable that part of Koichi didn't want to get up, but the rest of him recognised the unfamiliar atmosphere and was up in a flash.

A too quick flash, because his head started spinning immediately.

'Hey,' a soft voice said to him, just as unfamiliar as his surroundings. 'Take it easy.'

He opened his mouth, but his throat was dry and his mouth parched. His brain was just as off-foot, trying to figure out what had happened, and where he was…

At least he was sure he hadn't been dreaming, or was dreaming now. Because there wasn't –

He blinked, then corrected himself. No, he wasn't sure it wasn't a dream, because while there was nothing to remind him of his mother like all his dreams of late, the dark figure framed by the sunlit window was unmistakingly his father.

After all that searching aimlessly, he'd found him in a dream. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that – and wound up doing both, drawing his knees to his chest and clutching them as tightly as he could manage.

* * *

**27\. Writer's Choice**

Kousei was a little off-footed by the whole situation as well. To hear his ex-wife had died was a shock, even if they'd both been expecting it. To hear the chaos that had followed was even more of a shock, though in retrospect it was another thing they could have expected.

Because no-one had thought to explain things a little more thoroughly to the children. Hell, he hadn't explained anything at all to Koji – and that was going to be a mess he'd rather deal with another day. Explaining things to the son he hadn't seen for eleven or so years was going to be a challenge enough as it was, particularly when that son was shaking and crying and feverish after wandering Tokyo by himself for…a day and night? More?

But it didn't look like Koichi was in any condition to listen to him anyway, except maybe the most important part: that they would have lived together regardless of that little misadventure. Because that had been the arrangement: if either of them should die before the twins reached the age of maturity, they'd live together with the other parent.

Unless Koichi _had_ known that, and didn't want anything to do with a father who'd been so distant from his life.

But that thought only occurred to Kousei after he'd put a hand around his son's shoulders in a one arm hug. And by that point, Koichi had latched onto his arm and started crying into it instead of his knees, so Kousei figured "hate" was probably on the far end of the spectrum.

* * *

**28\. Writer's Choice**

Koichi felt the warm arm around his shoulders, and it felt so distantly familiar he latched on to it straight away. The dream was going to fade away now, he just knew it, but the warmth was too much to think of letting go of.

Except it didn't fade away, but stayed there like a constant: warm and strong. And he wished the fog in the room and in his mind would just fade away so he could know for sure if it was a dream or reality, but he couldn't, because his mother had been just a dream and that thought lurked too close, and the incense had been so strong he could still smell it…

But the fingers that disentangled themselves and petted his hair were rough and calloused and he didn't think he could have dreamed those up, because he'd dreamed his father as the sort of person who would have soft fingers to play the guitar or a piano with like his mother said he'd used to…but they weren't like that, even if he had that same frame he remembered, that same one armed embrace.

And even dreams could listen, couldn't they? And he babbled everything, because it hurt to keep it all bottled up and he was still confused.

* * *

**29\. Writer's Choice**

Kousei was somewhat relieved to hear the truth from the horse's mouth, that Koichi had wanted to be with him, had searched for him, even if it had been a foolish and terribly naïve thing to do. But for a child who didn't know if their father wanted them or not, he supposed it made sense. Especially if that child also thought there was no-where else to go.

Sometimes they forgot how young and vulnerable children really were, working with adults all the time. He didn't spend enough time with Koji either, and Koji hardly encompassed children in general. Even if they both were old enough to not be called children in colloquial terms anymore – but such incidences did bring things like that a little closer to home.

And not just for them, but for anyone happening to watch as well.

'Sorry for all this,' Kousei said, nodding at the two Himi children who'd been so gracious towards them. 'And don't worry about him any more; I'll be taking him home.'

The boys nodded and disappeared somewhere, and Kousei looked at the sleeping boy in his arms. It was going to be difficult: they could be like this now, but no doubt the walls would crash down soon enough. The death. The distance. The time. The lack of communication – and then there was Koji. And the lies.

But not right then. Right then there was just a father taking his child home.

* * *

**30\. Writer's Choice**

Everything smelt fresh, like lavender and lemon, strong enough to brush the scent of incense away, and it seemed like for the first time in a few days, he'd been able to get a decent sleep.

He still didn't quite understand what it all meant, but it seemed like everything would be okay now. He'd had a nightmare like a frightened child, and even if his mother wasn't there now to soothe him, his father was. He knew that now; his mother's embrace was now a cool whispery thing, but he still remembered that last one: his father's, warm and strong. There were a lot of things still lurking around the door…like what would happen now. Would he stay with his father? With the new family his father had built up? Would they all fall together seamlessly like a fairy tale or would there be more hurdles for all of them in the future?

But that didn't matter at that moment. He wasn't drowning in the smell or the incense, and he felt both the warmth of the blankets and the coolness of the open windows. The sweat that clung to him was dry now; the fever had left him to his sleep, and the room was as bright as he'd expected when he opened his eyes to look at it, far from the murky greyness the unfamiliar streets had become.

The room itself was unfamiliar, but there was still that familiar form at the window, staring into the breeze. Waiting for him to wake up maybe? Or just enjoying the air?

He opened his mouth, and this time his voice was more recognisable, and so was the word he spoke.

'…Papa?'


End file.
